


Raven Locks and Silver Hooks

by orphan_account



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Charming is fantasy only, Just Killian playing with himself, Kinks included, Many descriptions of body hair, Masturbation, Multi, Musings on a princes peen, This is filth. FILTH!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 14:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21393796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: After a botch voyage leaves Killian in a lurch, he takes out his frustrations in the only way he can think of...Furious masturbation. As one does.
Kudos: 1





	Raven Locks and Silver Hooks

The seas were finally calmed that afternoon, eased for the first time in that week: the chop on the water had been abnormally fierce, sending several newer crew men into sickness over the rails, skin tinged green. They'd been tossed off course from it by several miles, putting Killian into a foul mood, snapping at the crew, and doling out punishment for minor offenses.  
He hated to lose, but those few short miles had sent them too far off course to correct, not that it mattered if they turned back or not: the island was gone for another year, taking its treasures with it. The cup, the dagger, the damned brooch... alone, one would've taken in a pretty penny at any given market, together, with the powers of that brooch?

They crew would have lived like kings, for at least the next few years anyway.

And now, it was gone, gone for another year, and Killian was beyond angry, locking himself in his chamber after declaring a ship wide cleaning, sails to deck, and a ban on food ration until it was done. The crew was used to these tirades, doing the work anyways, out of respect.  
Inside his quarters, Killian huffed about, flicking through maps and shipping logs without reading them, his hook tearing the thin paper into even thinner strips in his haste. He grunted at the knock, turning to the door with an overly dramatic turn. "What?"

"Uhm...ahh..." A thin, trembling voice began, Hook rolling his eyes at the sound: the cabin boy, 17 years old, slender and tan, picked up in the last port town they'd docked in. He knew exactly what cabin boys were taken on for with ships like this, taking to the job readily and happily. The crew had sent him to Killian's rooms in an attempt to calm him, from the sounds of it. Killian, like many of the crew, had taken the lad to bed previously, taking advantage of the skills he'd picked up since joining, but tonight he wasn't in the mood.

"Boy..." Killian's voice was ice, despite his best efforts, as he began undoing the silver buttons along his waistcoat. "...as lovely as the offer is, this is not the time. Best be getting to your work."

"But sir," The boy began, but Killian was having none of it. No meant no, though the lad wasn't used to hearing it. Especially not from the captain.

"I said not tonight, lad. Take your wares to some other swab tonight, keep your muscles loose."

The barb wasn't kind, Killian knew that, but it worked: with a mutter about rum, and things not standing in bed when they should, the boy stalked off, slamming the door to the deck hard enough to rattle the lamps hanging from the ceiling. 

With a sigh, he shrugged off his waistcoat, letting it fall to the floor in a heap. It would wrinkle, surely, tossed aside like that rather than hung up, but right now he didn't care.  
He groaned, rotating his shoulders, arching his back, stretching muscles tired from climbing rigging and long hours at the ships' wheel. The motion pulled back the fabric of his shirt, the silk rubbing his chest. He caught a look of himself in the mirror by the bed, smirking at was was on display; the shirt, pulled so tight across his chest, had all but popped open, the buttons loosened, exposing his chest hair and one pale brown nipple, peeking through the dark tangle like an eye, split by a golden ring. 

Killian chuckled, stretching his arms back to enjoy the view for a few more moments, shirt tails riding high on his belly, his navel and a line of dark hair freed for a brief moment, before he relaxed with a sigh. 

He didn't consider himself an overly vain man, not really, but right then... the look of himself, hair mused from the winds off the sea, cheeks ruddy from those same breezes, shirt half open, hair curling across his tanned skin... 

Right then, the look of his own body was making him very hot. He swallowed thickly, hand undoing each silver button slowly, carefully, his breath catching. 

It felt very hot in the room, as he dropped his shirt to the cabin floor: sweat beaded on his chest, as he went to the fireplace, a large kettle boiling merrily over the flickering flames. He lifted the handle with the curve of his hook, hauling it across the room to the cast iron tub.  
He poured, watching the water sizzle against the metal: his hand undid his trouser buttons, sliding down, past thick, tightly curled hair, to cup the weight of what hung between his thighs. His eyes fluttered shut as he squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a twinge through his gut. His trousers felt very tight, his palm warming.

The water needed to cool off, unless he wanted to broil like a lobster: that was fine. He had more pressing matters to attend to. 

His hand smelled musky when he pulled it free, tugging his trousers down to his knees, kicking them off with one easy motion. He never wore unclothes these days, for ease of access. Far too often he found himself needing to strip rather quickly, and it made life easier.  
He glanced in the mirror again, smirking; between thighs dusted with black hairs, his cock stood up from its soft bed, ruddy and hard, a light vein throbbing along the pale shaft. It had seen good use since his 17th year, and picked up some skills during its long, hard travels.  
Currently, standing hard while the bathwater cooled in the tub, he only wanted one thing.  
Walking slowly, languidly to the bed, he draped himself across the sheets, legs spread widely, as if offering himself to a suitor, an act he seldom found himself performing. 

Although... he was far from a blushing virgin... in every aspect of the word. His smirk widened, recalling the week before, when his legs were clasped across the tanned back of a noble, a virile lad that came to the pubs looking for company. Killian had taken to him, testing the waters with selective flirtation, easing into an attempt at seduction. 

It worked wonders, the noble all but stripping Killian right then and there, thrusting into him at the bar for all to see. Not that he would've truly minded... 

His eyes closed, his mind wandering eagerly into that rather filthy fantasy: the noble, tiring of his flirtation, pushing him roughly to the scarred wood of the table, tearing his trousers from him, not bothering to undo them, slamming into him in one hard, glorious stroke, while the busty bar wenches watched in awe, red faced and bothered by the sight.

He sighed softly, hips lifting off the bed, allowing his hook to trail along his thigh: he wasn't a fool, he wasn't going to let the glinting curve anywhere near anything important, but the thrill, the idea that glinting, wicked smile of a blade could cup his most private parts, made him shudder.

His hand had laid by his side limply, but now it reached down low, not gripping, but feeling, fingertips padding along his shaft lightly: he had not to scoff at, standing a highly respectable six inches, thick enough to please bar wench and pirate alike, the head hidden under soft skin, bunched lightly at the end. He pulled down on the shaft gently, barely even gripping, feeling the friction shudder through him as the dark pink end slowly peered through its covering, a clear drop beading at the slit, trailing free along his fingers. 

It felt amazing, and he was in no rush: love making was rarely like this, slow, tender, the journey to orgasm as important as the end. The bar wenches he took in the alleys wanted it fast, half clothed to allow a quick return to work, the sailors hurried, sweaty, frightened of being caught. It spoiled the mood sometimes... but other times, when he'd gotten some rum in him, and his balls were heavy and aching, fast and rough did him just fine.

He sighed again, then chuckled at how he must look: splayed across the bed, fingering his prick like a lad just grown his adult hair, hook tracing his thigh. Should any of the crew see him, they'd either have laughed...or joined. 

The cabin boy crossed his mind briefly, then left it just as soon: as nice as the lad was, he was overtly feminine, hairless, clean, high gasps and sighs during. It had its place, certainly, and Killian wasn't one to say no to a good night in bed with a highly willing partner. But in that moment, it wasn't even remotely good enough.

The man who crossed his mind then was highly unorthodox, but the mind wanted what it wanted, as he fell into a fantasy, slowly tracing the head of his cock with his fingertips, hot beads of fluid slipping free to trail along his shaft.

Several months before, on a trip for supplies in the royal port, he'd gotten sight of the prince at a rally, the princess hanging off his arm placidly, waving to the crowd. She was a looker, for sure, in a humble way, dark hair twisted into a bun that didn't do much for her looks, cheeks ruddy from the chilly air. Her belly was big with child, and Killian's mind fled into filth, picturing what hung between the prince's legs, what had made the child slumbering in princess Snow's belly. Was it long? Fat? Shaven, natural? How did he look when he peaked, shuddering inside his lover?

It was enough to make his trousers feel a bit too snug, but he hadn't been able to linger too long that day, as they were still highly wanted in many kingdoms, the royal port included very highly on said list. 

However, in his imagination, eyes closed tightly to the afternoon light pouring through the porthole of his rooms, fingers gripping a little tighter along his shaft, anything was possible.  
He began a fantasy, set in his favorite pub, where the prince had come in for a drink amid the commoners, and taken him up on his seduction. The prince pushed him to the ragged chair, straddling him, kissing him roughly with soft lips, before breaking away to kneel between Killian's eagerly spread thighs.

"Aren't we the Prince Charming," fantasy Killian said, as the prince undid his trousers with trembling hands, gripping what stood proudly between Killian's thighs. The prince was just about to lower his pouty lips onto Killian's length, eyes watching him almost lovingly, when the fantasy changed directions, a lusty, overly energetic barmaid riding him eagerly, bosom heaving and bouncing. He was holding her hips to keep them connected, his cock wanting to slide free of her with each wild thrust, skidding out of her warmth to slid along her thigh, trailing clear fluid. 

"Ahhh, lass, you're wetter than a flooded brig," he cracked horribly, knowing it was corny, trying to make her laugh. There had to be fun in bed, or the whole experience was spoiled.  
"Lass? Too much rum, captain?" The prince asked, pausing in his movement, legs akimbo around Killian's thighs, his warm ass surrounding his cock tightly, but certainly not virginally. The prince's own cock (shorter than Killian's, but thick, with downy hair only just covering the base) bounced with each motion, fluid dripping down the shaft to pool on Killian's lower belly. 

In real life, Killian was just at his peak, chest and belly flushed, hot warmth building in his balls, trailing upwards to his gut. He knew himself well enough to know when it was about to happen, when his sail was about to unfurl, as he'd once cracked to a sailor with rather wonderful oral skills as a warning. The hook slid lower, and he risked letting the curve slid along the heft of his sack, the cool metal against hot, soft skin making him shiver, his grip growing firmer, rougher, the skin rubbing his head wonderfully. 

"Not yet, pirate," The fantasy prince crooned, now on his back, Killian riding him heartily, kissing up his abs and chest. A true cliche, but cliches were for a reason. Killian actually had enjoyed this position more than once in real life, seeing his lover react to every stroke making the ending even more worth it.

"Not yet, oh, please," the barmaid crooned, a pale hand rubbing Killian's throat, stroking his Adam's apple, pressing gently, so very gently, like Killian enjoyed with select partners. Had he a free hand, he would've done so in real life. As it was, he let the curve of his hook slid lower, pressing between his buttocks with a rather deft wrist flick he'd had no other use for, learned years ago as a practice parry in the navy. It did what needed to be done, putting pressure on that nub up high between his legs, hiding just behind his anus. His penis gave a delicious throb, and he smirked, panting harshly, toes curling involuntarily against the sheets.

"Oh, love," he moaned, to both his fantasies, hips arched off the sheets: it came in a rush, pleasure uncoiling in his groin like fire, building in his balls, rolling through his gut. His mind blanked as it came, six hot jets that dampened the hair along his belly, pooled in his navel, filling his foreskin. He stayed arched upwards for several more seconds, tugging fiercely as the sensation slowly faded, a last, weak splurt dribbling down his knuckles.

Killian relaxed with a long sigh, feeling filthy and loving it, rubbing his fingertips through the cooling mess on his belly, letting it smear in his pubic hair. He often did this after lovemaking, laying back and relishing the decadent calm, fluids smeared in rumpled sheets, the air stinking of sweat and flushed skin. It was almost his favorite part, when he thought about it, which was odd in a way. 

His only regret was feeling it along, without one of his fantasy lovers there to enjoy it along with him. Unfortunately, the barmaid was simply a splice of many others he had known in his lifetime, and the prince was happily straight, likely as not, and any time spent with his own sex was confined to willing servant boys or other princes looking for a thrill against the norm.

Still, it was nice to imagine it. He'd needed this time alone, to only worry about his wants. He normally went again, sometimes up to three in one session when the mood struck, but this time, once was more than enough. He felt wonderfully drained, a dull, pleased ache in his groin, his balls feeling lighter. His limbs relaxed on the now ruined sheets, as he licked the last few drops of his own cum off his fingers: it tasted a bit sour. He needed to eat more fruits. 

By now, the tub would've cooled enough for him to use, and he needed to wash before this all set in. As he'd discovered one very unfortunate night in his early youth, right as he began to fill out with his body hair, sperm was a bitch to clean out of your stomach line after left to set overnight. 

Shaking his drowsy after glow away, he got to his feet, and stumbled to the tub. Tomorrow, there would be a long, hard day of recalculations, maps, orders, and god knew what else. 

But... that was tomorrow.

Tonight, he had a hot tub, and a warm bed to go to... after a sheet change. 

The crew settled down for the night outside, and he planned to revoke the overly harsh punishment he'd set out. 

Emptying a man's balls did wonders, he thought, wryly, washing his stomach off. He also made plans to find himself a willing barmaid and a sailor when they hit the next port, making his two fantasies become one.

He felt he deserved it.

**Author's Note:**

> I regret nothing. Happy early Christmas to C.  
See you in fandom hell! I'll be in the "Wrote Too Many Jerk off Fics" section.


End file.
